Suits and Shit
by darkstar51
Summary: Series of mostly unconnected drabbles/short fics about Arthur's clothes or lack thereof one. Basically Arthur making breakfast. In nothing but Eames' shirt. Reasons. two. Eames finds out Arthur's sleeping attire though not in the way he would have wanted. Minifill for prompt in the inceptionkink lj.
1. Chapter 1

Originally uploaded on my tumblr (anarcreactorheart. tumblr .com)

Most likely going to write more and turn this into a series of drabbles/short fics about Arthur's clothes.

Eames frowned, trying to twist away and bury his face into his pillow as bright sunlight streaming through the window managed to sneak under his closed eyes. With a groan, he stretched an arm beside him, eyes opening as he found nothing where he knew his partner's warm body should be. The space beside him was empty, the pillow having fallen to the floor and the blanket, which he recalled trying to fight for in the middle of the night, left in a crumpled mess. How odd. He had always assumed that Arthur was the type to be freakishly neat about making his bed upon waking up.

The spot was still warm, so the point man had probably just gotten up, the presence of his glock on the bedside table beside Eames' own berretta proof he was still most likely in the apartment. Something the man was thankful for as he had just finally managed to convince the point man to sleep with him. The memory made him smile, and he got off the bed, already wondering where the younger was and whether he could be convinced to another round and perhaps breakfast. He scanned his surroundings, trying to find his pants, the only article of his attire that had made it into the room and not left scattered along the path from the front door to the bed. Arthur had been very determined to remove everything else as soon as they had closed the door behind themselves.

A confused frown formed on his face though finding most of Arthur's clothes still were he had (thrown) left them. Pinstripe pants peeking from behind the door, Arthur's crisp button-up looking less immaculate where it was covering a lamp, some of it's buttons scattered along the floor, and, to Eames's surprise, the point man's boxers still a mess near the end of the bed.

"Huh." Eames muttered, grabbing his own pants from beside the piece of clothing, continuing to stare at it as he buttoned his pants even as his mind tried and failed to process beyond 'What's Arthur wearing then?'

The question left Eames frozen in thought for a few minutes, before a smell in the air made him snap out of it. Apparently, Arthur was taking care of breakfast. He hurriedly made his way to his apartment's small kitchen, before he was once more frozen at the doorway by what he saw.

Eames stared dazedly at the sight before him, not quite able to process the sight before him. The British man shut his eyes, rubbing over them with the back of his hand, to try and clear his mind, debating whether he should go back into his room and check his totem, but no, the image was still there when he opened his eyes, and he remembered every single thing that led up to him standing awkwardly at the doorway of his own kitchen.

Arthur, dear, sweet, all-around perfect point man, always immaculately dressed Arthur, was standing in his kitchen, hair an adorable mess and wearing, it would seem, nothing but his shirt.

The very same shirt the point man spent the whole of yesterday insulting.

The very same shirt the point man had ripped off of him as soon as they entered his apartment.

The very same shirt the point man swore to burn when he had the chance.

Having been quite literally ripped open the night before, even from behind Eames could see that the front hung open, almost falling off Arthur' smaller shoulders only to be tugged up by the man. The shirt was slightly longer on Arthur, hiding enough for propriety's sake and Eames spent a few moments happily gazing at the slender legs revealed to him and remembering how they had looked wrapped around his waist.

He then promptly chocked on air, as he came to a sudden realization.

"Darling, are you not wearing anything under that?" Eames finally managed to ask, voice cracking a bit.

The younger man turned to him, eyes narrowed, and a frown on his lips, looking as if Eames had asked a particularly stupid question. He then looked down at himself and shrugged, apparently not having found a problem with his (EAMES') clothing or lack thereof, "You ruined my clothes last night, Mr. Eames," the point man said, matter of fact, before turning back to what he was cooking.

"Oh," Eames said, mind in shock at the sight before him, and heat forming in his gut, "Of course, darling."  
Even as he sat himself on the table, Eames couldn't help but continue stare, mouth opening and closing as he, for once, found himself unable to find anything to say. Eventually, Arthur shut off the stove, taking a few more minutes to transfer what he had cooked to various plates before turning to the table, and by extension Eames, who found himself once more open mouthed, eyes roving Arthur's form, unable to stay in one spot.

"Darling?" Eames called as Arthur arranged the plates on the table before turning to get their coffees, at Arthur's 'hm?', Eames cleared his throat and wondered if he'll regret his question, "Am I dreaming?"

Standing before Eames, eyebrow arched and looking more than a bit confused, Arthur frowned, "Why?"

"Pet," the Forger couldn't help but chuckle out, "You're serving me breakfast. Naked. Or well, in nothing but my shirt. Which I would like to remind you, you despise."

"Ah," Arthur nodded understandingly, making his way to the chair opposite Eames, sitting down cross-legged, though Eame assumed that was more out of habit than trying to hide himself, Arthur began on his breakfast, "You're not. I can put my clothes back on though, if you want,"

"No!" was the hurried answer, and Eames had to stop himself from physically reaching out and stopping the other man, "Just, darling, are you saying you're fine walking around in that?"

"Yes, Mr. Eames, more than," Then with a grin, he added, "I'm already wearing more than I usually do when I prepare my breakfast at home,"

Eames, who had made the mistake of starting on his coffee, snorted into his drink in surprise, and stared open-mouthed, "What?"

The smaller man shrugged, determinedly looking at his breakfast, "I tend to get home late and my suits are hardly comfortable for sleeping, as soon as I'm out of them I usually fall asleep already, and putting something on when I would have to change into my suit anyway," he trailed off with another shrug, "I got used to it. When I remembered I wasn't at home this morning, your shirt was just the closest thing,"

Eames…could somewhat see the logic in that. He frowned thoughtfully, then smirked, smug, "So I was right? You do own nothing but suits, pet."


	2. Chapter 2

Before anything else, Eames would like to say, this was definitely not his fault.

Okay, perhaps a little his fault. But it's not like he had known better, last he had heard, Arthur had been in the States visiting Cobb and his sprogs and so the Forger had assumed his darling's Paris flat would be available.

Of course, he only realized he had been mistaken when he was already in said flat, trying and failing to lock the door against the two suited men who had managed to follow him. Thrown to the carpeted floor when one of the men had kicked the door open, Eames gripped his gun, already readying an explanation to Arthur for the blood stains.

_'Really darling, it was horrific, I was just visiting when I saw these men in your flat, I tried to stop them but I was on my lonesome,'_ or maybe appeal to the Point Man's soft side, _'Oh darling, they tortured me, but I tried to get as little blood on the carpet as possible,'_

Of course, any excuse he could come up with was useless as a familiar and very beloved voice spoke up from the direction of the bedroom (And yes, Eames knew that was the direction of the bedroom, sadly not because he had ever been inside it with Arthur, but stalking the Point Man meant knowing these things).

"What the fuck is going on here?" Was the growled question.

Eames looked up, ready to defend himself, because a pissed off Arthur would always be much more frightening than any mafia. Only to freeze again at the sight that met him.

Arthur stood at the entrance to his bedroom, clad in nothing but a half open dress shirt and boxers. The Point Man's usually perfectly coiffed hair was for once lacking any hair products and hung loosely, curling slightly and Eames swears they're just begging for him to reach out and pet. As Arthur was clad in such tiny boxers, Eames' eyes of course gravitated to the smooth flesh of his darling's thighs where a holster was strapped, the gun held and pointed to them by a slightly sleepy, very annoyed Point. Huh. Eames had always wondered what Arthur's sleeping (or really any non-work attire) attire looked like.

"Well," Eames couldn't help but mutter, congratulating himself on at least having a wonderful eyeful before his death, "Hello darling."

And of course that would drag Arthur's attention to him. Being on the receiving end of Arthur's glare was usually quite fun, but in their current state, well, Eames' pants were starting to get uncomfortable, and considering the fact he was splayed on the floor on his back, that was a tad embarrassing. "Well, darling-" he tried again.

Yelling in french interrupted their conversation, which really was just rude and totally earned the shot to the knee courtesy of pissed off Arthur. And yeah, definitely not comfortable for Eames.

"I'll have you know, that I have neighbors and yelling in the middle of the night is rude,"

And Eames, because apparently self preservation instincts and higher brain functioning were thrown out the window because Arthur was wearing NOTHING BUT A DRESS SHIRT AND BOXERS, spoke up, "Actually darling, this flat is sound proof,"

A simple glare that translated to 'Shut up, Mr. Eames,' and Arthur was back to dealing with his unwelcome visitors, gracefully strolling past Eames (and no, Eames did NOT stare at Arthur's ass...much)

One of the men was on the ground, clutching his knee and moaning in pain, the other frozen and gaping, obviously recognizing the infamous Point Man. The man just had enough time to snap out of it and try to form an explanation before Arthur was pointing his gun to his head, pulling the trigger before a word of explanation could be uttered.

The man on the ground received the same treatment. And Eames was left staring at the two bodies now bleeding all over the carpeted floor.

And well, that should not have such a turn on at all, Eames tried to convince himself, as he shifted in his position when Arthur turned to him. Walking to the Forger and crouching between the British man's splayed legs, Arthur rubbed at his eyes, somehow emanating adorableness and being a fucking turn on at the same time.

Of course, turn on or no, Arthur's gun which was dangling much too close to his crotch was enough to silence any of the thoughts running through Eames' mind. "Uhm, pet..."

"You're doing the cleanup," Arthur snapped, and Eames eagerly nodded, "Of course, darling, wouldn't have it any other way,"

Arthur sighed and stood and Eames gulped because with the lack of space and the sudden move, he found himself much too close to temptation than was comfortable. But Arthur just stood there for a few more seconds before strolling back to his room, muttering a "Good night, Mr. Eames." before slamming the door shut.

And fuck, Eames swears the hip swaying was definitely not necessary, thank you very much Arthur.

Crossposted at my tumblr (hardyjoegasm . tumblr . com)


End file.
